


Magic Bullet

by starksborn



Series: Quicksand [3]
Category: Saints Row
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Other, Scummy AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 12:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7891603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starksborn/pseuds/starksborn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's very few steps to taking a city. Step one, be prepared. Step two, have fun. Step three, don't fuck the enemy. It's unfortunate for the Saints that the Boss has managed to fail all three steps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magic Bullet

**Author's Note:**

> Well this has just gotten entirely out of control now, hasn't it?

_You know I love it when you say you're afraid_   
_But you hate it when I'm making you shake_

_\--------------------------------------_

 

One of the Saints warehouses is burning. 

The Boss watches the blaze through a pair of binoculars, perched on a roof top a block away and angrily chewing on the cigarette between their lips. The dark smoke billows into the clear sky, marring the pristine blue stretching out over the city like a nasty bruise. The Boss swears, lowering the binoculars and beginning to pace back and forth. They suck the cigarette down to nothing in a few short drags and toss it over the edge of the roof with as much force as they can muster. 

It does nothing to quell their anger. 

“You think it was Killbane?” Pierce finally asks. He's leaning against an HVAC unit with his arms crossed, squinting in the sunlight and staring out at the horizon. The sound of sirens from the Steelport police and fire services ring in the air, managing to block out the noise of the traffic down below. The Boss stops their pacing and doesn't answer, instead settling for digging out another cigarette. 

The mention of Killbane's name sets a stiffness into their muscles. 

Truthfully, they've been doing their best to pretend he doesn't exist. They've instead spent the last few weeks taking on the Morningstar with the help of Viola DeWynter. 

Her defection to the Saints following Killbane murdering her sister had been unexpected, and initially the Boss wasn't sure she could be trusted. The irony, and hypocrisy of those feelings was not lost on them, and they changed their tune quickly once Viola started giving the Saints information on how to reclaim Phillipe Loren's old stomping grounds. With her help, the gang has managed to take almost all of the Morningstar territory in addition to Viola talking a lot of their soldiers into switching sides.

Given the recent focus on the Morningstar and the Boss disregarding the Luchadores and the Deckers for now, they're doubtful Killbane's behind the warehouse fire. It wouldn't make any sense for him to put effort to sneak this deep into Saints territory, set _one_ warehouse on fire and then leave. That's too subtle for him, too sneaky. If Killbane was planning to lob an assault at them, it would be in the form of a small army storming their HQ, or another attack on Angel's gym. 

“It's STAG,” they say, sucking on the fresh cigarette and raising the binoculars again. 

“That don't make no sense,” Pierce says, brows furrowing. “Why ain't Cyrus tryin' to fight us in the streets or something?” 

“Because STAG doesn't quite have the PR for that yet,” the Boss says. They turn back to Pierce and tap ash off the cigarette. “STAG going after us is a calculated move because we're the new kids on the block in Steelport. The city is used to operating around the Syndicates bullshit, but us waging war with them is throwing every day life out of whack. STAG coming in, putting us in their sights and promising to rid the place of gang violence is all well and good, but if they start turning the streets into more of a blood bath than _we_ already have, the public's gonna find themselves short on good will.” 

“So, they're setting our warehouses on fire, to do what? Send a message?” The Boss nods, blowing smoke out of their nostrils and frowning at Pierce from behind their sunglasses. “If Cyrus Temple thinks he can scare us by setting some stuff on fire, he doesn't know jack shit.” 

“I got a bad feeling about this, Pierce,” the Boss mumbles. “This is a warning. STAG is planning something; something big.”

“Whatever they're planning it ain't gonna be enough,” Pierce says. He digs his keys out of his pocket and gestures to the rooftop exit. “Come on, nothing we can do about this, might as well head back to the crib and regroup.” 

The Boss follows him, thoughts full of what Cyrus Temple could be planning and running scenarios of the best and worst possible situations. They're quiet the entire drive back to the crib, even in spite of Pierce's attempts to start a singalong. He parks the car in the garage, killing the engine and turning his attention to them. 

“You okay?” he asks. The Boss blinks a little, turning their head towards him.

“I'm fine,” they say. “Why do you ask?” 

“You just ain't seemed like yourself lately,” Pierce says, voice oddly serious for a change. “With Johnny dying and everything goin' on, I just wanna make sure you're doing all right.” 

“I'm fine, Pierce,” the Boss says. Before they can say anything else, their phone starts ringing. They answer the call with a tap of their finger and quirk an eyebrow as they listen. 

“We'll be right there,” they say finally, ending the call. “That was Angel, he's got eyes on a huge shipment of _something_ coming in for the Luchadores.” Pierce raises his brows and starts the car again. 

“We takin' it from 'em?” he asks as he pulls out of the garage. 

“Sure as shit are,” the Boss says. “Angel's waiting for us at his gym. He thinks it's about time we remind Killbane we're still gunning for _him_ , too. I don't disagree.” 

The drive to Angel's is quick, and the two of them find him in a back room of the gym pouring over maps of the City. He looks up when they enter, taking a swig of coffee before setting the mug down on an old poker table. 

“Just for kicks I started going through the old Luchadores files I have,” he says. “I compared it to data Kinzie and Shaundi drew up about places you've been hitting them so far and I found something that's going to help us out a lot.”

“No shit?” Pierce asks. “What is it?” Angel grins and taps his fingers against the map. 

“Killbane is still using the same routes and people we used when I was with the Luchadores,” he says. The Boss blinks a few times behind their shades.

“That's fucking _stupid_ ,” they say. “Even for him. Why the hell would he do that?”

“My guess he is never thought I'd be a factor again,” Angel says. “Why bother to change a good system if you don't think you have a reason to?”

“That makes a little sense,” Pierce says. “It's still stupid, but even so.”

“So if he's using the same places,” the Boss says, moving to peer at the map, “and you know the details, we can start really doing some damage to Luchadores territory and merch.” Angel nods, still grinning. 

“Which is why I called,” he says. “Killbane's got a huge drug shipment coming in later today. I'm thinking we get there before the Luchadores do and take it right out from under him.”

“That would certainly get a message across,” the Boss says. 

“No shit,” Pierce says. “Then we start undermining everything that son of a bitch is doing. We disrupt his system and start hitting him on every front we can, and he won't know _where_ to start tryin' to retaliate.” 

“Exactly,” Angel says. 

“Good find, man,” the Boss says. They clap Angel on the back and turn to Pierce. “Round up some of the boys, we're goin' fishin'.”

 

It takes little time to set up at the docks and take out the Luchadores waiting on Killbane's shipment. It takes a tad more time to commandeer the boat it came in on and get it back to the waters outside Kinzie's hideout. Once docked Pierce lets out a low whistle as the Saints unload the boat. 

“That is a _whole_ lotta cocaine,” he says. The Boss snorts, crossing their arms over their chest. 

“ _That_ is gonna generate a lot of money for the Saints,” they say. 

“And most likely get Killbane in deep shit with his cartel connection,” Angel adds. 

“Speaking of,” the Boss says, “you know who his connection is?” 

“There's a small chance it's the same people it used to be,” Angel says. He rubs at the stubble along his chin as he thinks. “I can find out one way or another.” 

“Do that,” the Boss says. “If we could cut Killbane's supply off at the source, that would _really_ put a hurting on him.” 

“Man,” Pierce says, “I'd _hate_ to be the guy that has to tell Killbane we just fucked him good.” The Boss cracks a grin at that.

“C'mon,” they say, “let's give Kinzie a heads up, see if she can't help Angel find out the best times and places to hit the Luchadores again.” 

The three of them spend hours drawing up maps with Kinzie. She insists they formulate back up plans in case their primary ones go awry, and with STAG being an unknown factor, the Boss agrees to it. The Steelport police and National Guard they can handle no problem, but STAG butting into things could get messy if they're not all properly prepared. 

At one point the Boss gets her aside to compile a dossier on STAG and Cyrus. 

They slip it into a bag when no one is looking and spend all night going over it once back at the crib. Sleep eludes them again, so they stop chasing it to opt for drawing battle lines across a map of Steelport.

The problem with STAG is how out of the Boss's league they are. Ultor was one thing, but this? 

They've never dealt with an adversary this well funded and organized. Taking on other gangs is one thing, but dealing with a paramilitary organization while still in the middle of a city takeover?   
They're gonna have to pull a rabbit out of a fucking hat to make sure the whole crew survives this fight.

The fact Johnny already died before the battle got going does nothing for their morale. 

A knock on the door gets their attention, and they look up as Shaundi pokes her head into the room.

“Can't sleep?” she asks, stepping in. 

“I'm trying to figure out what the fuck I'm gonna do about STAG,” they say. They lean against the headboard of their bed, pinching the bridge of their nose and squeezing their eyes shut. 

“We'll figure something out,” she says. Shaundi takes a seat at the foot of the bed, eyes scanning over the papers spread out. “We took down Ultor, we can take down Cyrus Temple.”

“Ultor was different,” the Boss says, more harshly than intended. “Vogel was different.”

“I'm sure pushing Cyrus out a window would have the same effect, though,” Shaundi says with a tense smile. 

“Getting to him would be a lot harder,” they mumble. 

“Hey,” Shaundi says, sliding closer to them. “Don't worry about it so much. STAG's a pain in our ass, sure, but we'll get them eventually. And Killbane. We'll finish this, we'll avenge Johnny for good and Steelport will belong to the Saints.”

“And then what?” the Boss asks. “We pack up, go back to Stilwater? What comes after?”   
“And then we'll have two cities,” Shaundi says. “And people will finally learn you don't fuck with the Saints.” 

The Boss says nothing, and the two of them sit in silence for a few moments until Shaundi stands back up and starts picking up the papers. She stuffs them back into the file folders, placing them on a coffee table while the Boss watches her with narrowed eyes. 

“You're gonna burn yourself out if you keep trying to focus on too many things at once,” she says. 

“I thought you wanted me to be storming the entire city?” they ask. 

“I do,” Shaundi says. “But I've also realized this is somethin' that's gonna take time. You were right, we can't just run around blindly causing problems without thinking. That's what got us into this mess.” 

“No,” the Boss says. “ _I_ got us into this mess. Johnny was against robbing that bank for the sake of publicity in the first place. I should have listened to him. I made a mistake, Shaundi, and look at where it's gotten us.” They shift their position, swinging their legs over the side of the bed. 

“I can't make another mistake like that,” they say, voice low. “But I keep making shitty judgment calls.”

“You can't start doubting yourself now,” Shaundi says. “No one is infallible, not even you. We don't follow your lead because we think you are, we follow your lead because we trust you.”

“Except you're wrong,” the Boss says, standing up and beginning to pace the room. “Everyone in this gang thinks I'm invincible, they thought Johnny was invincible. How can I expect people to follow me if I don't even trust myself to make the right decisions anymore?” 

“Boss,” Shaundi says, reaching out to put a hand on their shoulder. “Johnny's death wasn't your fault.”

“Bullshit.”

“It wasn't!” she snaps. “And it wasn't mine either. I still feel like I should have done something, like we just left him to die, but the situation was what it was. He told us to go, and we went. He wouldn't want either of us guilt tripping ourselves like this.”

The Boss says nothing and shrugs out of her grip, muttering under their breath about needing a drink and heading towards the door. 

“What else is bothering you?” Shaundi asks, following. “You've been acting weird for a while now. You keep disappearing on us, and...” 

She trails off, letting the sentence hang in the air as the two of them walk to the bar. The Boss ignores it, hoping she'll drop the subject, and digs out a bottle of vodka. They drop ice cubes in a glass and don't look up until they've filled it to the rim and take a swallow. 

“And what, Shaundi?” they asked pointedly. 

“It just seems like...you're feeling guilty about something,” she says. 

“I'm just stressed, Shaundi,” they say. They close their eyes and take another long swig of their drink, relishing in the way the vodka sears down their throat. 

“I'm worried about you,” Shaundi says. She comes around the end of the bar, putting a hand on their shoulder again and looking at them with pleading eyes. _Let me help you,_ she seems to be saying. “I'm not over Johnny yet. I can't lose you too.”

All of the tension built up in the Boss's shoulders evaporates. They let out a deep sigh and set their glass down, turning to envelop Shaundi in a hug. 

“You're not gonna lose me, girl,” they say. Shaundi wraps her arms around them and rests her head on their shoulder. “I ain't gonna leave you. That's a promise.” 

Shaundi nods, holding them tight for a minute before letting go and taking a step back. The Boss takes another sip of their drink and forces a cheeky grin.

“Besides, if somethin' happened to me that'd leave the Saints in _Pierce's_ hands,” they say, tone as light and jovial as they can make it. “We can't let that happen, can we?” 

Shaundi smiles, and excuses herself with a mention of getting some sleep. The Boss watches her leave before stepping out on the balcony with their drink in hand. 

The breeze is cold and the sky is clear, and this high up the sounds of the city are all but muted. It's almost enough to be relaxing, and the Boss allows themself to plop down in a chair and put their feet up.

They nurse their drink, staring up at the stars and for a brief while all thoughts of STAG and gang wars ebb from their mind. Their racing thoughts die down one by one, being replaced by a blessed nothingness until sleep begins to creep in around the edges. 

The Boss wakes up in still in the chair, their drink glass broken on the ground next to them and the sun just cresting over the city. The crib is still quiet and they pull their phone out to check the time. A blinking _new messages_ icon catches their attention, and they tap it with their thumb. They might as well get back to business sooner rather than later, and they're not surprised to find messages from Zimos about the Saints' recent acquisition of high quality cocaine. Kinzie sent a few cryptic messages about ideas for attacks on the Syndicate, and Angel wants to know when they're hitting the Luchadores again. 

The Boss keeps scrolling, and stops when they see a message from the contact marked _K_. Their chest seizes up and they hesitate to open it, instead sitting on the edge of the chair and listening to their heart pound in their ears. They finally hit the icon, and freeze when the message pops up.

_We need to talk._

They furrow their brows, absorbing the words and feeling anger building in their gut. If Killbane thinks he can just _summon_ them whenever he wants, for whatever reason he wants, he's gravely mistaken. They tap out a reply with a deep frown on their face. 

_Too bad._

His reply comes entirely too quickly, and all the message contains is an address and a time. It's enough to make the anger simmering in them explode into a full boil, and it takes effort not to chuck their phone in the pool. They disregard the broken glass and storm back into the penthouse, stopping at the bar to knock back some vodka straight from the bottle before heading towards the elevator. 

Killbane wants them at the address he sent within the hour. 

They can't tell what's making them angrier, that he's demanding their presence like he has any kind of _control_ over them, or that they're _going_ and potentially _giving_ him some. 

The address ends up being for an apartment building in Bridgeport. The Boss parks their car a block away and alerts Killbane of their arrival while they walk. His last message is simply ' _penthouse_ '; as if there were any _other_ place he would be. 

They take the elevator up and pound on the door as hard as they can until he jerks it open and glares down at them. The Boss returns the look, hoping he can _feel_ it even through their dark sunglasses.

“What?” they ask. He says nothing, stepping aside and motioning for them to enter. They pause for a moment, hesitation playing across their face despite their efforts to hide it. 

“You have something of mine,” Killbane says. The irritation in his voice is clear, and the Boss cracks a grin as they realize he's trying to get his drugs back. They saunter into the penthouse, hands buried in their pockets. 

“An' you think I'm gonna give it back to ya if you ask nicely?” they ask, turning to lean against the back of a chair. 

“Do you know what happens when that much cocaine goes missing?” Killbane asks, voice low and almost filled with something akin to worry. “Colombian cartels don't take kindly to people that _lose_ their shipments.” 

The Boss can't hold back an ugly laugh, tilting their head and laughing until there's tears in their eyes. Killbane's mouth presses into a thin line and they can see a vein on the side of his neck pulsing. They catch their eyes lingering a little too long on the flush of his skin in comparison to the green of his shirt and force themself to stare just off to the side of him instead. 

“You think this is fucking _funny_?” he growls, taking a step closer to them. The Boss gives an exaggerated shrug of their shoulders.

“Yeah, kinda,” they say. “Sounds like yer in a bit of a pickle, Pryor.” Killbane says nothing in response, he just advances on them more and lets out another growl. The Boss doesn't bother to move, still reclining against the back of the chair with one leg crossed in front of the other. 

“You're gonna give me my drugs back,” he finally says when he's bearing down on them. “Or I'm going to make your life a living fucking _hell_.” 

“Like you ain't done that already?” the Boss snaps, brows furrowing. “You think this fucking gang war bullshit's been _fun_ for me?” 

It's his turn to laugh now, and the amount of disregard and scorn Killbane manages to put into it is almost impressive. It serves only to make the Boss's temper flare even more. 

“What's so goddamn funny?” 

“It's just you seemed to be enjoying yourself an awful lot when my _cock_ was in your _mouth_ ,” he says, flashing teeth with a curve of his lips. 

The Boss punches him hard enough in the stomach that he makes a choked noise and shuffles back a few steps. They pull the gun from behind their back, clicking the safety off and backing him up into the wall.

Their height difference doesn't matter much when they've got the barrel of a .357 pressed into his throat, and for a few tense moments, all the two of them do is glare at each other. 

The Boss's finger is twitching, switching between being pressed against the trigger and outside the guard, and they can feel their control slipping. They've spent so much time since landing in Steelport trying to keep it together and be the leader the Saints need them to be. They haven't even had time to process Johnny's death, and the complications with Killbane have just been adding even more stress. 

Blowing his brains out right now would put a stop to a lot of it. 

Hell, it would put a stop to all of it. They could go _old school_ on him, bring his severed head into Matt Miller's hideout at Burns Hill and declare the Saints the new rulers of the city. 

That could finish this, once and for all and save the Saints a lot of headache in the process. 

Their finger slips over the trigger again and presses against it lightly. The hammer moves, ever so slightly, and they give him an almost _feral_ grin when fear flashes briefly across his face. 

That mask of his can only hide so much. 

_End it_ , they think, over and over. It runs through their mind like a mantra and their hold on the gun tightens and the look on their face must be something to behold if the look in his _eyes_ is anything to go by. 

But then that _phrase_ enters their mind. 

_The Butcher of Stilwater._

The monster everyone thinks they are; the heartless, sociopathic and inhuman _thing_ people think crawled out of that coma in place of the person they were before. 

They were out of control back then, hellbent on retaking the city that had already belonged to them once. They would have done anything to reclaim Stilwater, and _anything_ is exactly what it came too. Every nail they had to put into every coffin of their dead friends was another chip of their mental health taken away. Every burial taking bits and pieces of themself with it, sinking it deep into the earth and leaving it to _rot_ with the people they'd loved. 

And then there was Johnny. 

Johnny, who understood their reasoning, who never doubted or judged them or left their side even for a moment. Johnny, who was left to put the pieces of the Boss back together after the war was done, and Johnny who _took them all away_ when he died on the Syndicate's fucking plane. 

Johnny left them all alone in the mess they made, and it's in that moment the Boss realizes they're going to have to have clean it up alone. Killing Killbane now would end things quickly, but it would also deny the rest of the Saints their own vengeance for Johnny's death. 

The Boss has plans in motions, they've got debts to repay and deals to finish. Shooting Killbane would be letting him off _easy_. He needs to be alive to watch as the Saints take everything from him, and as they do it _together_. 

Their hand is shaking when they finally pry their finger away from the trigger of the gun. They click the safety back on and slowly lower it, backing away and returning it to the holster. 

“You're not getting your fucking drugs back, _Eddie_ ,” they say. “But I'll give you a piece of advice: you don't wanna lose anymore _shipments_? Stop using the same old ass trafficking routes.” 

They make a quick exit from his building after that, leaving before he can recover and say anything else and rushing back to their car as fast as they can. The engine revs to life with the push of a button, and tires screech as they pull out of the parking lot. They cruise around the neighborhood for a while, going in circles and trying to clear their head until they eventually find themself pulling into Angel's garage. 

The confrontation with Killbane has them riled up, and all they want to do is _hit something_. With STAG roaming all over the city, they don't see starting a street fight ending well, and they're relieved when they find Angel already tearing into a practice dummy. He looks up as they enter, pausing mid-swing and narrowing his eyes as they shrug out of their jacket. 

“I didn't know we had anything planned today,” he says. 

“We don't,” they say, their voice tight. “I just really wanna beat the shit outta someone, and I figured you're always up for that.” Angel raises a brow, lips twitching into a small smile. 

“Don't think I'm going down easy,” he says, turning towards them and cracking his neck.   
“Wouldn't dream of it.” 

The Boss drags the unplanned training session with Angel out for as long as they can, until it's finally Angel relenting and calling it quits. They're both out of breath, covered in sweat and new bruises and he backs up until he's resting on an old pool table, chest heaving. 

“You know,” he says, fixing those golden eyes on them, “you show this kind of intensity at Murderbrawl and taking Killbane down is going to be a cakewalk.”

The mention of Killbane dredges up the anger they felt earlier, and with it comes the guilt about the last few _meetings_ with him. The Boss opens their mouth to respond, and for a moment, all of it threatens to comes pouring out of them. The need to _confess_ what they've been doing is overwhelming, and the nagging voice in their head has switched gears. Instead of chanting for them to _end it_ with Killbane, it's insisting they reveal the truth about everything. 

Put one more nail in one more coffin. Ruin all that they've built with the Saints, profess their betrayal of their family and let the gang turn their need for vengeance to their leader. 

_**Ruin yourself,** _ _crash and burn like you were always meant to._

Maybe, with any luck, they'll at least be reunited with Johnny. 

Angel frowns at them and steps closer, catching the expression on their face and how their eyes, for once unshielded by their ever present sunglasses, have glazed over. He puts a hand on their shoulder, tilting his head a little. 

“What is it?” he asks. “Are you worried about Murderbrawl?” 

The Boss blinks, and forces themself back into reality. Angel's hand is warm on their skin and the light from overhead makes his eyes almost glitter. For a moment they find themself lost in his gaze, and don't notice leaning forward to kiss him until they've got an arm around his neck and his tongue is in their mouth. 

They're trying to peel him out of his shirt when he suddenly pulls away and puts space between them. Panic rises in their throat when they realize he's not into the direction they were going, and that trying to find an escape in Angel was apparently a stupid thing to attempt. 

“I, uh,” he says, clearing his throat. “I'm not....comfortable with this.” The Boss backs up a few feet and starts fumbling to collect their things. 

“Sorry,” they say, breathless. “Really, I'm sorry, I don't know what I was--”

“It's just not good timing,” Angel says. “I can't right now, not with all this going on with Killbane. I'm still mostly on loan to the Saints right now anyway, and we should just be professional about this.”

The Boss's hands are shaking again as they struggle to get their sunglasses and jacket on. Angel lets out a sigh and comes over to help get their arms in their sleeves, and briefly interlocks his fingers into theirs. 

“Are you all right?” he asks. 

“I feel like I should ask you that, since I kind of just attacked you,” they say, trying to make their voice light. They're still avoiding eye contact. 

“That was hardly an attack,” he says. He lets go of their hand and guides them across the old casino towards the garage. “Just don't worry about it. Do me a favor, get back to the crib and get some rest. Shaundi said she's worried about you, and I think I see why.”

The Boss nods but says nothing, and Angel watches from the steps as they back their Bootlegger out of the garage and whip into the night. 

They ignore his suggestion of getting rest and pull into the first bar they find. It's a dingy, run down thing, with music so loud it manages to drown out even their most intrusive thoughts. They pass a wad of cash to the bartender and ask for as much alcohol as it can buy, opting to forgo glasses and flopping into a booth in the darkest corner of the place to chug directly from the bottle. 

They're pretty far gone when they see Killbane walk in, and they're out of the booth with a quickness and stability one wouldn't expect from a person with that high of a blood alcohol level. The pair of them lock eyes across the place and anger bubbles in the Boss's gut once again.

“You fucking stalking me now?!” they ask, voice raised and bucking for a fight. 

“This time, yeah,” he snaps back. He pushes through the crowd until he's close enough to get a fistful of their shirt and shove them into a back room. He muscles a pair of bikers out of it, slamming the Boss into a wall and banging the door shut behind them.

“I gotta tell ya, I'm not in the _fucking mood_ tonight, Eddie,” the Boss says, words slurring just slightly. Killbane's eyes flicker to the bottle in their hand briefly before he advances on them. 

“That's the second fucking time you've pulled a gun on me,” he says, voice low and rumbling in his chest. “You do that one more time and you better hope you can blow my brains out quicker than I can _break your fucking neck_.” 

The Boss narrows their eyes, scowling up at him and trying their best not to see double from the amount of vodka in their system. 

“Almost sounds like you're _afraid_ , Pryor,” they say, managing their best shit-eating grin and sober tone of voice. Killbane's face darkens even more, and he slings back an arm and punches them in the side of the face. The Boss goes sprawling from the unexpected blow and stumbles away from him. The bottle slips from their grasp and shatters on the concrete floor and for a moment, neither of them do anything. 

Then everything explodes into a flurry of motion. 

The Boss draws, reaching for the gun in the small of their back, and Killbane is just as quick; grabbing the wrist of their gun hand in his own and shoving them back into the wall. He squeezes their wrist until they're forced to drop the weapon, and the gun clatters to the floor. 

“What did I just _fucking say_?!” he hisses, face close enough to theirs that they can feel his breath on their face. The side of their face is already red and swelling from his fist, and the smell of spilled vodka is heavy in the air of the small room. The Boss is breathing deeply, chest heaving, and above all they can't help but notice the smell of his cologne. Their eyes flutter just slightly as their chest heaves and Killbane's grip tightens on their wrist. Pain shoots through their hand and forearm, and even through the booze, they can feel the pressure he's putting on their joint. 

Maybe it's because of the vodka, or maybe it's because of something they haven't bothered to think about, but even despite Killbane being in a foul mood and completely ready to murder them, all they can focus on is how he _smells_ and how _warm_ he feels. Their mind flashes back to their last encounter with him, and they bite down on their tongue. 

“Fuck me,” they pant. 

They know they shouldn't be here, not with _him_ , and they know they shouldn't be asking what they're asking. The very foundation of the Saints is at stake and if anyone in the gang ever found out about something like this, it would be game over. 

The mutiny the Saints would give them would make their coma seem like a vacation. They know this, but even still, they can't stop themself from sliding their free arm around Killbane's waist and letting him get in close. 

“ _Fuck me_ ,” they say again, their voice heavy and breathless. 

“What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?” he asks, though by his tone it's obvious he doesn't mean it. 

“You want a list?” they ask. 

“Not really.” Killbane lets go of their wrist and immediately starts undoing their belt. With a bit of shuffling, the two of them end up against the small couch on the other wall of the room. The Boss is bent face first over the arm of it while he grabs a fistful of their hair and pulls their head back. He rakes his teeth against the skin of their neck, and relishes in the feeling of their pulse beneath his tongue while wasting no time in prying them out of their pants and their underwear. 

“Not one for romance, are ya?” the Boss asks, laughing to themself.

“You don't strike me as the type that takes to _romance_ very well,” he growls in their ear. The Boss lets out a small hiss as he slips a finger into them. They're not _quite_ as wet as he was expecting, so he makes sure to give them a few minutes of good teasing. He gets them near climax with just his finger, and waits until they're bucking their hips against him and begging before doing anything further. 

When Killbane finally braces himself on the arm of the sofa and directs himself into them, he can't help the contented sigh that slips from his mouth. He knows on the same level the Boss does that this entire _thing_ they've started is not the ideal situation. If his Luchadores ever found out he was literally _fucking_ the _enemy_ , none of them would be happy about it, and it could threaten his entire hold on the Syndicate.   
Killbane's confidence in being able to muscle his troops into following him anyway is substantially higher than the Boss's however, and he's quick to push the thoughts from his mind. 

He gives in to the urge to shit talk them the whole time he's inside them, and asks them what they think the Saints would think of them if they saw them in this position. The Boss doesn't respond, and Killbane grins to himself, asking instead what dear old _Johnny_ would think if _he_ saw them. 

“ _Fuck you_ ,” the Boss says, the words coming out through ground teeth. Killbane chuckles, and they can feel the reverberations from it against their back. 

“I already am,” he says, thrusting into them with enough force to send a jolt of pain through their body. The Boss gives him something akin to a cry, and it only serves to encourage him further. After a few seconds of thrusting, they devolve back into begging him for more, and he's oh so quick to give them what they're asking for. 

“Fuck me,” they pant, hips moving in time with his and fingernails digging into the material of the sofa. “ _Fuck me, god, fuck me_!” 

“You're so _needy_ ,” he says, voice deep and _low_ as he all but whispers into their ear.

The words seem to send the Boss over the edge, and he sucks in a breath as he feels their muscles clench tight around him. He pumps them full of cum a few seconds later, and rests for a moment to catch his breath before pulling out of them and readjusting his pants. 

The Boss stays flopped over the side of the couch, eyelids fluttering and mouth slightly agape, and Killbane sighs. He bends down and pulls their pants back up, and then slides them so they're laying down face first on the sofa pillows. 

“I'm serious about the gun thing,” he says, leaning down to tug at their ear lobe with his teeth. “Don't let it happen again.” They give him an unintelligible mumble and he figures that's the best he's going to get from them as he exits the room.   
  


The Boss wakes up the next day to the feeling of someone poking them roughly in the shoulder. They groan loudly, sitting up with a start and directing a glare to the bartender from the night before. 

“You ever gonna leave, buddy?” he asks, frowning. “We open back up in two hours, and you made one helluva mess in here.” 

“What time is it?” the Boss croaks, voice hoarse and throat stinging from their alcohol binge. 

“Five in the afternoon,” the bartender says. The Boss swears and stands up, shoving past the guy and stopping only to pick up their gun from where it sits on the floor. Their phone is low on battery life, and there's more missed call notifications than they can process with their addled brain, so they shove the device in their pocket while heading back to the car. 

The engine roars to life, and the Boss pauses to dig a pack of cigarettes out of the center console and light one. They inhale a deep lungful of smoke, leaning back in the seat and exhaling slowly. 

“Fuck,” they mutter. They stick the cigarette between their lips and throw the car in gear, peeling out of the parking lot and hitting the highway. 

The Boss isn't the penthouse for a full minute before Pierce seeks them out like a missile, brows furrowed and stomping towards them.

“Where the _hell_ have you been?” he snaps.

“Out,” is all the Boss says as they shove past him and make for the bar. They don't have near enough alcohol left in their system for an argument with him, and the occasional stabbing pain shooting through their groin causes them to limp every other step. 

“Out _where_?” Pierce asks, following in hot pursuit. “We've been looking all over for you! STAG has started raiding even more of our warehouses and businesses since yesterday. Everything is fucked right now, and we haven't been able to find you.”

“So we retaliate,” the Boss says, grabbing a bottle of vodka and cracking the seal. “It's not like we don't know how to deal with them.”

“Not knowing how to deal with them is the whole problem!” Pierce exclaims. “Look, I know we've taken down some nasty motherfuckers before, but Cyrus is a different type of dude, Boss. I'm startin' to get worried, here.” 

Annoyance flashes through the Boss as they angrily knock back a couple shots in quick secession before slamming their glass down. 

“What do you suppose we do, Pierce?” they ask.

“Send 'em a message,” he says. “You know, like we've _always_ done. Cyrus needs to know he can't fuck with us like this and get away with it.”   
“Fine, Pierce,” the Boss says, sounding more tired and defeated than annoyed or angry. “I'll take care of it.” 

They head back the elevator, pressing the call button for the garage, and Pierce follows them, confusion evident on his face. 

“You got a plan or something?” he asks. “You want some help? I mean that's what we're here for, you know.” 

“Nope!” they say, stepping into the elevator and giving Pierce a smile as the doors hiss shut. 

Tires screech and leave skid marks on the pavement as they gun the Bootlegger's engine and pull out into traffic, cutting a moped off in the process. They make a pit stop at Shaundi's ex's place to load up on grenades and firepower before driving all the way to the STAG PR Center. They park in the back of the Planet Saints near it and walk the rest of the way, casually strolling through the streets with a rocket launcher resting over their shoulder and a cigarette hanging from their mouth. 

It only takes two rockets to get STAG's attention, and when they start pouring out of the building with guns blazing, the Boss tugs the pin on a pair of grenades and tosses them into the fray. Police sirens are almost inaudible next to the gunfire and explosions, and the Boss can't hold back laughter as they unload the rest of the rockets.   
Military vehicles lay dented and upturned, and STAG agents run wildly, firing pulse rifles and calling out orders. Within minutes, two helicopters are flying overhead, sharpshooters trailing behind the Boss with red dots as the entire block devolves into chaos. 

The Boss manages to take down one of the choppers, and as the second one disappears behind some buildings they take the chance to climb a tipped over HUMVEE and fire a rifle into the air, drawing the foot soldiers attention to them. 

“You tell Cyrus Temple if he wants a fucking war, then I'm damn well gonna _give him one_!” they yell. Someone tosses a flash bang in their direction, and it detonates before they can scramble out of the way. The Boss yelps, falling off the truck and covering their eyes, for all the good it does. Even with their sunglasses, those goddamn things still do a good job of making everything go fuzzy.   
The sound of rotating blades catches their attention, and they force an eye open just in time to see that the second chopper's returned. The STAG agent sitting inside has them dead to rights, and not seeing any other way out of this predicament they've gotten themselves into, the Boss takes a running start towards the dock. 

The rifle cracking echoes above everything else, and the Boss grinds their teeth, eyes locked onto the water and their only way out. They make a dive off the edge of the seawall, losing their glasses in the process and putting all their effort into staying below the water as they kick their feet. 

By the time they've surfaced, they can only assume the cops have lost sight of them, and they drag their waterlogged ass back onto the shore, hiking up the steep incline next to the bridge and wincing at the pain in their stomach. They glance down, holding a hand to their abdomen and watching as it comes back bloody. 

“That fucker,” they mutter, angry that the STAG sniper was able to even get a hit on them in the first place. The pain in their stomach is sharp and burning, and the longer they walk the fuzzier their vision gets. 

_This isn't good_ , they think, doing their best to keep to side streets and out of heavily trafficked areas. They don't want to risk going back to their car, and every second that passes makes them feel weaker and weaker, and they _know_ they're losing a good bit of blood. Glancing up at the sky and squinting in the light, something in the skyline catches their eye and they grin, speeding up their pace with a destination in mind. 

The Boss had never noticed it before, but that ugly green skyscraper that Killbane owns is right next to the STAG PR Center. It's a hell of a lot easier to sneak around the back of it and duck into the garage than it is to try and hole up in Planet Saints, and the Boss is careful to keep their head down, just in case _Eddie_ has any of his goons lurking about. 

It turns out to be surprisingly empty as the Boss decides to plop down in front of the elevator. They don't think trying to get inside it would end well, and who knows what kind of mess Killbane has set up for security on the inside. For now, being able to keep their head down and having the added bonus of being somewhere STAG would never think to look for them is good enough. The fact that they're severely injured, and weaponless in case they encounter trouble doesn't seem to enter their mind as they rest their head against the cool metal of the elevator door, trying to focus on staying conscious; at least for a while.

They're not seated long when a familiar black truck pulls in, veering to the side away from them and parking. The driver door slams after the engine turns off, and the vehicle beeps once as it's locked.

Approaching footsteps cause the Boss to straighten up a little, and by the time Killbane rounds the end of the truck and sees them, they've got their best shit-eating grin in place. The sickly pallor to their skin and the fact that they're soaking wet and bleeding detracts from it just a bit, and for a moment, nothing happens between the two of them. 

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?” Killbane finally hisses as he stomps over towards them. 

“Jane hasn't put it on the news yet?” the Boss asks, voice strained. “She must be havin' an off day.” 

“You get into a fight with my Luchadores and decide to come running to me for help now?” Killbane asks, eyes narrow and voice low with anger. 

“Oh, _please_ ,” the Boss says, “your Luchadores are nothing but a buncha kids that don't know which way to aim a gun. No, I went after STAG.”

“Doesn't look like it _ended_ too well,” he says, sneering at them. The Boss bites back the urge to snap at him, and instead lets out a sigh.

“No, it didn't,” they say. “I needed a place where they wouldn't be looking for me, but since you're _here_ , I don't suppose you'd be willing to help me out, would you?” 

It's a long shot. 

Letting the Boss bleed to death in his garage would be one hell of a PR move for Killbane, and they know he'd have no trouble spinning it to make himself look good in the eye of the public _and_ STAG. The Boss is just hoping there's enough animosity between the two of them that he really doesn't want to give anyone but _himself_ the satisfaction of killing them. 

Their gamble seems to work when he growls a little and leans down to help them to their feet. 

“If anyone sees you in here that's gonna cause a lot problems for me,” he says, pressing the button for the elevator and shoving them in roughly. 

“Aw, lookit you,” they say, leaning on the wall as he directs the car to his penthouse, “bein' all sweet n' shit.”

Killbane glares at them and stays silent the whole ride to the penthouse, but when the Boss stumbles once trying to exit the elevator, he does lend them a hand and steady them into his bathroom. He situates them on the edge of his tub and pauses to take his suit jacket off and roll his sleeves up before digging a medicine box out of a closet. 

“Don't think this is going to be a regular thing,” he says as he helps them out of their shirt. 

“I've been sayin' that to myself a lot lately,” they say, wincing at the feel of the fabric being pulled away from their injury. Killbane opens the box and pulls out a flashlight, sticking it between his teeth and even putting a pair of latex gloves on. He squats down in front of them, inspecting the gunshot wound front and back and poking around it lightly. 

“Good news is it went right through,” he says, brows furrowed more in concentration than anything else. 

“You moonlight as a doctor when you ain't beating people with chairs?” the Boss asks. 

“No,” he says, pulling out gauze and a bottle of peroxide. “But you spend enough time in dive joints, working on the indie circuit in questionable wrestling promotions that don't even have proper medics at ring side, and you learn a thing or two.” The Boss isn't sure how to respond to that, so they stay silent as Killbane does the best he can cleaning and patching them up. 

He turns out to be quite knowledgeable when it comes to treating GSW's, and after he gets it clean and covered with some gauze, he pauses to leave the room and come back with a bottle of water, roughly telling the Boss to take small sips. He helps them out of the rest of their clothes, removes the already soaked gauze and gets them into the shower, turning the water on at a temperature that's more _cool_ than warm. The Boss is starting to feel lightheaded, and something on their face must give it away. By the time their legs start to give out under them, Killbane's halfway in the shower and supporting them with both hands. 

“Jesus christ, it's like you've never been shot before,” he says. 

“I'm usually...better at avoidin' bullets,” the Boss says, voice strained as the pain in their stomach becomes more unbearable. Their vision is going hazy, dark spots creeping in on the edges of it and it's not long before everything goes black and they're nothing more than dead weight in Killbane's arms. 

 

_\--------------------------_

_There ain't no magic bullet_   
_There's no cure for the weak_

 


End file.
